


Fake Air

by GretchenSinister



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 13:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16996122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretchenSinister/pseuds/GretchenSinister
Summary: Original Prompt:"When the Nightmare Horses engulf Pitch at the end of the movie, he is thrown into a living nightmare so that they can constantly feed off of his fear. What do you think this nightmare entails?"Anything can be scary with the proper lighting. Especially when it’s all in your head.





	Fake Air

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr 5/14/2013.

It’s all very ordinary. Pitch knows this. Except for never sleeping, what he’s experiencing now is much like the life of a typical, middle-class, human adult. There’s nothing wrong with it. In the past, he has personally observed many people living happy, nearly fear-free lives in exactly such a situation.

What he knows doesn’t help. In fact, it does as little good as explaining to an arachnophobe that this spider is really harmless—look, it’s so small, it’s more afraid of you than you are of it, it’s fangs aren’t nearly long enough to break your skin, and even if they were, it doesn’t have enough venom in it to be dangerous!

The actual danger is not the point, and it is not something the Night Mares understand. All they understand is fear. And so they do not invade his mind with precipices off which he might fall, deep seas with preternaturally strong currents and an abundance of never-were creatures with inordinate numbers of teeth, mysterious people that wish to harvest his organs or blood, night jungles through which he wanders ill with the slither of giant boas behind him, seeds growing from his skin, moments in which he finds himself driving the wrong way down a highway of semis, the shambling-slouching-screeching of vast alien things behind the stars that have now noticed him, or anything else that, while fantastic, could possibly be related to a real danger of earth.

To relate fear to danger, to make it useful, is his job. A thankless job, but necessary, and clearly one the Night Mares cannot do.

The Night Mares recreate the uninspiring suburban streets they’ve been running around for the past few days because that is what they have seen. Their true power manifests much more clearly in the core Pitch’s mind.

They seed fear in every stray leaf on his lawn, the angle of the line of sight between his bedroom and dining room, the shade of blue of a sedan that drives by his house every Monday to Friday between 7:43 and 7:47 am, the nametag reading “Sharon” on the cashier at the grocery store, the waiting list for an in-network therapist—everything, really.

Pitch can almost focus enough to admire the skill and power he gave them when his heart starts to pound as he takes his decaf latte from the barista. He knows there is absolutely no objective danger in the somewhat tired smile of the average-looking college student counting out his change, but as she reaches out her hand with its collection of coins, the pounding of his heart turns to an ominous thud and he can’t focus on anything anymore. He is going to die. That’s what this is, isn’t it? He is going to have a heart attack and die in the coffee shop. No, that’s not right. He’s going to smother first. He can’t get enough air. There’s something deeply wrong with this place, it isn’t real and neither is he, how can he breathe fake air? The paper coffee cup slips from his shaking, sweating hands and the barista has the nerve to look worried about that, how absurd of her, what does he care about staining his clothes when he can’t breathe, and oh God hasn’t he been alive for too long already without breathing? No doubt his mind is being damaged somehow and if he lives he’ll be crazy and he’ll be put into a fake mental institution full of fake doctors and fake air and they’ll think this heart attack is fake and he’ll die. Not that it matters since he’s going to die in a few minutes anyway…

“… started having them in college. But she’s okay now. Got a Prozac prescription, you know.”

“Why am I not at the hospital?” Pitch asks. “I was having a heart attack.”

“Not heart, panic,” says the barista. “You need a prescription. And maybe to figure out what triggered it.”

Pitch stares at her. That’s the thing, isn’t it? In this world the Night Mares created, anything could trigger a panic attack. It only depended on whether they were hungry or not. Whether they were satisfied with a constant low level of fear or not. A pitcher labeled “half-and-half” that he spots over the barista’s shoulder begins to look inexplicably menacing. He looks down at the dirty tile floor. “No good,” he replies. “If I had a prescription, I’d be afraid of the pills.”

***

They do their job so well, Pitch thinks, walking back to his house, watching, with dread, a school bus drive by. Like a horror movie soundtrack.

But they don’t know who to make afraid of what, and so to survive they must do the best they can, and make Pitch afraid of everything they know.

He can’t hope they’ll die of starvation.


End file.
